“Thou shalt get that,” said O’Donnell.

Five pieces, and again five were paid him, and lo! the lad had his head and the hound his. And though they lived to the uttermost end of time, the hound would never touch a hare again, and the lad took good care to keep his eyes open.

Scarcely had the lank grey beggarman done this when he vanished from out their sight, and no one present could say if he had flown through the air or if the earth had swallowed him up.

Heavy was the flesh and weary the spirit of Leinster’s king. ’Twas the hour he was wont to hear a story, but send he might right and left, not a jot of tidings about the story-teller could he get.

“Go to the door,” said he to his doorkeeper, “and see if a soul is in sight who may tell me something about my story-teller.”

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank grey beggarman, half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two old shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a three-stringed harp.

“What canst thou do?” said the doorkeeper.

“I can play,” said the lank grey beggarman.

“Never fear,” added he to the story-teller, “thou shalt see all, and not a man shall see thee.”

When the king heard a harper was outside, he bade him in.

“It is I that have the best harpers in the five-fifths of Ireland," said he, and he signed them to play. They did so, and if they played, the lank grey beggarman listened.

“Heardst thou ever the like?” said the king.

“Did you ever, O king, hear a cat purring over a bowl of broth, or the buzzing of beetles in the twilight, or a shrill tongued old woman scolding your head off?”

“That I have often,” said the king.

“More melodious to me,” said the lank grey beggarman, “were the worst of these sounds than the sweetest harping of thy harpers.”

When the harpers heard this, they drew their swords and rushed at him, but instead of striking him, their blows fell on each other, and soon not a man but was cracking his neighbour’s skull and getting his own cracked in turn.

When the king saw this, he thought it hard the harpers weren’t content with murdering their music, but must needs murder each other.

“Hang the fellow who began it all,” said he; “and if I can’t have a story, let me have peace.”

Up came the guards, seized the lank grey beggarman, marched him to the gallows and hanged him high and dry. Back they marched to the hall, and who should they see but the lank grey beggarman seated on a bench with his mouth to a flagon of ale.

“Never welcome you in,” cried the captain of the guard, “didn’t we hang you this minute, and what brings you here?”

“Is it me myself, you mean?”

“Who else?” said the captain.

“May your hand turn into a pig’s foot with you when you think of tying the rope; why should you speak of hanging me?”

Back they scurried to the gallows, and there hung the king’s favourite brother.

Back they hurried to the king who had fallen fast asleep.

“Please your Majesty,” said the captain, “we hanged that strolling vagabond, but here he is back again as well as ever.”

“Hang him again,” said the king, and off he went to sleep once more.

They did as they were told, but what happened was that they found the king’s chief harper hanging where the lank grey beggarman should have been.

The captain of the guard was sorely puzzled.

“Are you wishful to hang me a third time?” said the lank grey beggarman.

“Go where you will,” said the captain, “and as fast as you please if you’ll only go far enough. It’s trouble enough you’ve given us already.”

“Now you’re reasonable,” said the beggarman; “and since you’ve given up trying to hang a stranger because he finds fault with your music, I don’t mind telling you that if you go back to the gallows you’ll find your friends sitting on the sward none the worse for what has happened.”

As he said these words he vanished; and the story-teller found himself on the spot where they first met, and where his wife still was with the carriage and horses.

“Now,” said the lank grey beggarman, “I’ll torment you no longer. There’s your carriage and your horses, and your money and your wife; do what you please with them.”

“For my carriage and my houses and my hounds,” said the story-teller, “I thank you; but my wife and my money you may keep.”

“No,” said the other. “I want neither, and as for your wife, don’t think ill of her for what she did, she couldn’t help it.”

“Not help it! Not help kicking me into the mouth of my own hounds! Not help casting me off for the sake of a beggarly old–”

“I’m not as beggarly or as old as ye think. I am Angus of the Bruff; many a good turn you’ve done me with the King of Leinster. This morning my magic told me the difficulty you were in, and I made up my mind to get you out of it. As for your wife there, the power that changed your body changed her mind. Forget and forgive as man and wife should do, and now you have a story for the King of Leinster when he calls for one;” and with that he disappeared.

It’s true enough he now had a story fit for a king. From first to last he told all that had befallen him; so long and loud laughed the king that he couldn’t go to sleep at all. And he told the story-teller never to trouble for fresh stories, but every night as long as be lived he listened again and he laughed afresh at the tale of the lank grey beggarman.

There was once a poor old fisherman, and one year he was not getting much fish. On a day of days, while he was fishing, there rose a sea-maiden at the side of his boat, and she asked him, “Are you getting much fish?” The old man answered and said, “Not I.” “What reward would you give me for sending plenty of fish to you?” “Ach!” said the old man, “I have not much to spare.” “Will you give me the first son you have?” said she. “I would give ye that, were I to have a son,” said he. “Then go home, and remember me when your son is twenty years of age, and you yourself will get plenty of fish after this.” Everything happened as the sea-maiden said, and he himself got plenty of fish; but when the end of the twenty years was nearing, the old man was growing more and more sorrowful and heavy hearted, while he counted each day as it came.

He had rest neither day nor night. The son asked his father one day, "Is any one troubling you?” The old man said, “Some one is, but that’s nought to do with you nor any one else.” The lad said, “I must know what it is.” His father told him at last how the matter was with him and the sea-maiden. “Let not that put you in any trouble,” said the son; “I will not oppose you.” “You shall not; you shall not go, my son, though I never get fish any more.” “If you will not let me go with you, go to the smithy, and let the smith make me a great strong sword, and I will go seek my fortune.”

His father went to the smithy, and the smith made a doughty sword for him. His father came home with the sword. The lad grasped it and gave it a shake or two, and it flew into a hundred splinters. He asked his father to go to the smithy and get him another sword in which there should be twice as much weight; and so his father did, and so likewise it happened to the next sword–it broke in two halves. Back went the old man to the smithy; and the smith made a great sword, its like he never made before. “There’s thy sword for thee,” said the smith, “and the fist must be good that plays this blade.” The old man gave the sword to his son; he gave it a shake or two. “This will do,” said he; “it’s high time now to travel on my way.”